HEAVEN'S ADVOCATE
by Don Serralta
Summary: Johnny Klebitz is thrown into a frenzied melee after he is asked to investigate the dissapearance of several Brotherhood fighters and stumbles upon something much deeper than sucker punches and underground fight clubs
1. Title Page

**HEAVEN'S ADVOCATE**

_A crossover novella between "The Lost and Damned" and "Dead or Alive"_

**_Notes:_**

_I had a few problems with the story. Johnny Klebitz's background story is hardly divulged in-game and it's timeline hardly overlooked. The developers of the "Dead or Alive" games continue to ignore that their female characters are essentially the same girls with just their hair and clothes and color eyes swapped out, and while the fanfiction community may disagree suddenly, I'd like to remind them that it is us that are responsible of giving them what little character they have. The timeline is placed sometime between the time prior to "The Lost and Damned", at a time when Johnny Klebitz begins to doubt his boss's leadership of The Lost, and sometime in the middle of or sometime before the events of "DOA 4", when a large part of the characters are in the throes of destroying and liquidating DOATEC, the company that runs the DOA tournaments and at a time when Kasumi is constantly hunted by her former Ninja clan._

_The story is narrated in the first-person from Klebitz's point of view. I wanted to flesh Johnny out a bit, to put in a league above his fellow bikers, as he was placed in during "The Lost and Damned". My reasons for writing the story are numerous, but primarily stem from the fact that nobody's even thought of combining these two before. It started out with Niko Bellic fighting in the tournaments in order to help bring it down and cover his immigration status in the U.S.A., but, the tournament rules being so incredibly vague in all the games, I scrapped it and left the tournaments out, themselves a bit constricting to the characters and the personal literary style I wished to convey. Think of it as an upgrade, from 2-D to 3-D and, later on, to 4-D. _

_Any sort of comment is welcome and highly appreciated. I truly hope you enjoy and can appreciate my work._

_Sincerely,_

_The author_


	2. Johnny's Intro

**JOHNNY'S INTRO: **

**Sure, I got reasons**

I got a few reasons for writing memoirs, and my fucking publisher wants me to detail them "when [I] can". By when I can, he means "on your next book, or else you're loosing your fucking contract". The pig bastard's got too much money and too little dick to waste it on, if you ask me. But I guess I owe it to anybody that's reading already. You wouldn't believe how many people think I'm some kind of hero for writing a book. It's makes me smart, not a hero, and people shouldn't ever look at anybody smarter than them like that. It's how people take advantage of you. Reward them, sure; praise them, of course; give them support, above all. But don't go thinking that this person's a god and that you need to be worshipping them. And the people who take advantage of that should burn in Hell for it. If you're smarter than everybody else, it means that you have a responsibility to teach people that don't know things all that good. Don't go thinking that it's only yours and that everybody who's not like you is inferior and lazy and not worth your time. Take it from me: some time in your short, pathetic life, you were a little shit-for-brains upright cattle like everybody else. And I guess that's my first reason: I wanna write this book because I want to teach people something, and I want them to be less stupid than they were before they read my book. Don't nobody deserve to go without an education, don't matter if you're black or purple: you get an education, one way or another.

My second reason is that there's been a bunch of bullshit going on about how The Lost Brotherhood was racist and that they were in cahouts with the Angels of Death. Let me tell you something: shut up. In plain language, I will tell you: you're bullshitting yourself and everybody around you, and anybody with any sense has a right, by law, to punch the cunt and pussy out of your soul. I want to make it clear that, while The Brotherhood was full of fun loving rebels who were forced to dabble in crime as a means of survival and to preserve it's community, I'll admit that we did make a few mistakes. Above everything we did wrong, I'll admit that we killed way too many people who didn't deserve it. And while a couple of people on the side of Murder Street didn't kill The Lost BC per se, it did kill a lot of our causes to stick to our guns in it. Old Billy Grey wasn't the most calm and collected guy you ever met, and everybody's got to face the fact that it's because of him that the Club was forced to disband. And if nobody WANTS to admit, then I'll say this: it's what got me to cover my tracks and get the hell outta there.

My last reason is that a lot of the wrong people are getting to become celebrities by writing books. A good example: everybody who writes a story with Vampires in it. I couldn't give a flying SHIT that I was discriminating against a vamp, so I'll say it: GET A FUCKING JOB. If you read all the way through the drivelling bullshit they call "writing", you'll find huge pitfalls where, if you fall in, you'll break your _widde weading weg. _Sexual repression, rudimentary diction (EXCUSED rudimentary diction), and characters about as deep as the graves the Nazis dug up for the Jews in Auschwitz. Quite honestly, I think it's sick. They use all these fancy words and little techniques to masquerade the whole thing. What, all of a sudden, the literary equivalent of a **parasite** is a hero? Get the FUCK out! Give me a fucking break, will you? I'm begging you here. I'm sick of wallowing in all of the crap they try to feed kids and adults alike, and I'm sick of them polluting what used to be someplace where smart people could teach you about something. So, my last reason? In constrastingly plain, reasonable, clear language, I'll tell all of the money-grubbing, sycophantic corporate _whores _that call myself my competition the following: FUCK YOURSELVES, YOU BRAINWASHING SKULL FUCKERS.

Enjoy the book,

- Johnny K.


	3. Carcer City

_**Uno.) Carcer City**_

The truck took about a half-hour to back up out of the depot. The steam got so piled up under the transmission, it started to leak all over the pavement. Jimmy hadn't fixed the engine, so it sputtered up and down the road. The brakes worked when they didn't screech. They did, and the people looked around to see the clunker we called a moving truck. Jimmy knew enough to pull down his hat, so that he didn't feel self-conscious. "I can't let my girl see me like this" he says.

Out-of-towners are extra jumpy. Everybody here notices anything. And it's twice as bad. Jimmy sees everybody moping around here like drunken hobos and they wonder why they aren't as paranoid and as hyperactive as he is. Jimmy's especially hard to teach: jumpy people are the first to get stared at in this city. But I guess it's just natural for him, natural for anyone. We were supposed to have the stuff half across town two hours ago. I doubt Billy had noticed, though. He's older than shit, parents a bunch of nigger-hating trailer trash like the most of us are. He wouldn't care if there was an asteroid hurtling towards Earth. It's like it is: Carcer's a slow city. Fifty years of random violence, gratuitous gore, and sexual inundation are bound to do that to anybody. Look into their eyes, you'll see a kid wearing a do-rag standing over the bloody body of a little old lady, thinking about taking the gun his friend gave him for protection and putting it next to his ear and pulling the trigger. He forgot not to show his face to the people his homeboys deal with. Aspiring to be the biggest bunch of mass murderers, conquerors, and street purifiers. Adolf Hitler would have been proud, if they didn't speak like they had brain damage and their skin wasn't blacker than a kettle. It's 2:24 AM on a Friday, and we're still a long ways from the warehouse.

It's two in the morning, and traffic isn't moving. Jimmy thinks it wise to honk the horn.... for about, the fiftieth time.

"MOVE IT, ASSHOLE! " he yells.

"Would you chill the hell out. 'Boss isn't even gonna notice we were gone. He's probably plastered or something" I tell him. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one he threatened with a freakin' butcher's knife, man" he says, acting like he's got a knife in his hand, crazy eyed.

"How much damage did the weed and the meth do, seriously?" I ask him, "I've lived for years near people bat-shit crazy on the stuff and they aren't half as tweaked as you are."

"Fuck yourself, baldy. You're not even paying attention, man. I got shit to do. I need to get out of here and get crazy, you know?"

"You gonna read Tarot cards with your girlfriend after failed sex from smoking too much weed?"

"You know I got rid of that habit. You know nobody can get into the club without leaving the impurities behind. And besides, I told you weed doesn't do anything to your dick."

"Coming from a greased up ex-hippie, I find your credibility exponentially better than ."

"What?"

"Yeah. Apparently, Jesus was black, white people are the scourge of mankind, and that Muslim running for President is the Saviour of the world."

He sits, real quiet, wondering if I was serious, and what the words "exponentially" and "credibility" mean.

"I know... creepy, right?"

All the better for darkies: doing what we do, you hardly feel comfortable being white. I'm always wondering whether Hitler got it wrong, handing his Aryan purification bullshit to a bunch of cock hounds like the Angels. Mind-boggling, if you consider the significant other, more educated, amazingly less successful racist groups out there. KKK, the Aryan Nations folk... hell, even the Nation of Islam. They're all doing shit compared to the fucking Angels. Damned shame, too; I don't think this shipment is gonna win us this damn war as much as a tank is gonna win it. But, anything that keeps me alive longer, fucking harder, drinking more, riding faster, living better, shooting closer... you're shitting me I won't go for it.

"Johnny... you're full of shit, dude" he says.

"Now you fucking find out, Jimmy? God, you're stupid..."

"You're not the one on driving. You're jacked up on painkillers and Vodka!"

"Just shut up and focus on the road"

"Why bother? Everybody's going at 35 miles an hour... HEY, FUCKIN' MOVE IT, YOU OLD BAG! FUCKIN MOVE!"

"Jimmy, will you chill out already... you're gonna get us pulled o..."

It's hard to describe what happened next, but I'm gonna give it my best shot. The little can-a-peas truck we were in shifted up and down. It's like some morbidly obese fat person had fallen on the container's roof and the bounced and then fell again. You never played with a WonderBall? Anyway, it's more like it fell on the hood, and another fat guy (probably his wife) fell on it too and made the truck shift again. And it's as if they'd bounced away on top of other cars, roof to hood to trunk.

Jimmy summed up how I felt about the situation best: "Mother... FUCK... me?"

Our heads slammed against the roof. Getting out of the truck, we saw what had happened: the hood was dented in thick. And it hadn't happened to us alone: cars up and down the lane had the same thing happen to them. Everybody was out, traffic was stopped. I saw people reaching for their phones.

"We need to get out of here" I say to Jimmy.

"What the fuck was that?" he says, eyes wheeling all in his head.

"I don't know... and I don't think Billy's gonna care"

"I hope not..."

"Do _you _care?"

"You fucking kidding? The friggin' hood is pushed in like somebody dropped a damn cow on it! Don't _you_ care?"

"Nope..."

I pull the cap I'm wearing down. The jumpsuit is smelly and I can't wait to take it off. Every minute I'm away from my jacket, I'm all itchy to wear it again. You ever feel like that about your clothes? Letterman jacket, scarf, pants, socks, all that kinda shit. It's that way Lost jacket... it's kinda like... who I am. I guess it's always been that way. Sitting in the warehouse, Jimmy off in some shit hole stripper place, cutting off some dude's nuts so that one of his "buddies" can make a video of it and put on the Internet, it feels real special. It's 3:57 AM. I'm wondering about that jacket. I see the bottle in my hand and I see it's half empty. I raise it up to my lips and I drink what's left in it. My head still isn't spinning, and the deep feeling in my throat still isn't gone. It's 3:58 AM, and I'm smashing the bottle on the floor. I'm cutting my feet stepping over the glass as I walk to where my jacket's hanging. My eyes feel like someone's pounding on the back of 'em. There's a gun hanging from the outside pocket. I grab it and I cock it. The clip release clicks: the magazine's full. I pop it back in, cock it, and I stare at the back of it, the hammer gleaming in the lamplight. I hold the barrel up to my ear. I can almost hear how empty it is. My finger squeezes the trigger. The rust around it makes it hard to pull. It's 3:59 AM, and I'm pulling on my pants. The boots slip on and I feel the glass in my foot move around. It bothers me as I walk to the 24/7 two blocks down.

I smile as I remember that thing they always say about crab shells and how you can hear the ocean if you put your ear to it. _Kinda like my gun_, I think. I always found the term "bad boy" hilarious. All these celebrities, they keep calling them that, and I just can't help but laugh. They go to work in a fucking limousine and wear make-up half of the time; that's a ponytail away from "transvestite". It's almost like they think it's great to be a bad boy, like it's like a good thing. I always imagine some fat lady sitting at a desk, pen tip poking in her pudgy red lips, wondering what next she can write about another monkey that gets into some hot rod and makes a movie about crashing cars. They're the kind that don't find out that another "bad boy" had cracked his skull across the pavement because he tried riding a car home a few points above the legal limit. A rough beard, smudgy face, grease all over your clothes is sexy? There's a bunch of other names for it, you know: European, or hillbilly, or Italian, or fast-food worker, or homeless. Drug addiction, psychopathy, wanting to tear your girl's spine from her back: it's the new "lady in red". From all this crap saturating the air in them, it's no wonder chicks at supermarkets don't expect a bad boy to shove the _Liberty Tree_ in their face and scream bloody fucking murder of how it was a dollar less expensive yesterday. People that watch other people get their brains get splattered on TV and in the movies are the first to call the cops and call security. They're the first to scream when they hear the actual gun go off, and the first to go traumatic when blood splatters all over their clothes. Early this morning, there was a cashier covered in blood, shivering, a security guard on the verge of retiring lying in a pool of the red stuff at her feet.

It's 4:00 AM, Friday: where are you going to be?


End file.
